


Empty Bottles

by pluperfecthell



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 03:37:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5896621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pluperfecthell/pseuds/pluperfecthell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A ghost from Shepard’s past comes back to haunt her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Empty Bottles

**Author's Note:**

> An AU where everyone lives and only some things hurt. Edited and reposted from my old Shepard ask blog.

Shepard is pouring herself a drink when the doorbell rings.  
  
Shepard goes to answer it, expecting to see Tali, or Steve, or Mordin, or really, any of her old Normandy crew, for their “semi-biannual ‘old Normandy crew’ get-togethers.” (Joker’s name for it, not hers)  
  
What Shepard doesn’t expect upon opening the door is a ghost.  
  
“Con!” The ghost throws its arms around Shepard’s shoulders.  
  
“…Mother,” Shepard says, the words foreign like the stranger embracing her. “How–”  
  
“Siha?” A soft, raspy voice interrupts. The woman embracing her lets go. She blinks. “And who is… this?”  
  
Fuck. “Mother. This is Thane Krios. He’s... he is...” _Fuck._  
  
“…her husband,” Thane finishes, bowing slightly. “A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Shepard. Your daughter has told me much about you.” Eloquent as ever. Now if only he would…  
  
He gestures towards the apartment. “Please - join us.”  
  
…not do exactly what she expected him to do, everything would be perfect.  
  
“I’d be honored,” the stranger says, beaming.  
  
_Fuck._ Shepard wants a drink.

 

—

 

Old friends arrive, and the woman (“Please, none of this 'Ms. Shepard,’ it’s Hàng. Shepard is my daughter’s name!”) settles in as if she belongs there - fires off witty one-liners with Joker, flirts with Zaeed, regales the crew with tales of her own misspent youth. She charms everyone with grace and with elegance - none of Shepard’s harsh words and brusque mannerisms and long, awkward silences.  
  
“I guess now we know where Shepard gets her manners from!” Garrus says, teasing. Shepard rolls her eyes (“You’re one to talk. Stick to sniping, Vakarian.”), refilling his glass with brandy.  
  
She hesitates for a moment, staring at the stranger’s empty glass - the third in two hours - before she asks if, “you want more scotch?”  
  
“No, I couldn’t possibly… oh, go on, then! It’s been ages since I had a drink, one more couldn’t hurt!”  
  
Shepard bites her tongue as she refills the glass.  
  
Against her better judgment, Shepard refills her own, also.

 

—

 

Shepard could never quite get the hang of the piano, not like her beloved guitar or “mellifluous” voice (Thane’s words - or maybe it was Joker’s? - it may have been Garrus’...), so the one in the den of the apartment sees more use as an oddly shaped table than as a musical instrument.  
  
But apparently the stranger sitting at the bench is a fucking piano-whisperer or something, with the way she coaxes out the notes into beautiful harmonies with hardly a protest from the ivory.  
  
(It also turns out her voice is pretty fucking “mellifluous” as well. Because of course it fucking would.)  
  
“I can see that musical ability runs in the family, Shepard,” Liara comments as the woman, somewhat dramatically, plays an encore amidst polite applause. Shepard smiles and nods and wonders if she can get away with Lifting and Throwing the damn thing out the window. She doesn't do that.  
  
She pours herself another drink instead.

 

—

 

It’s late when the crew leaves, back to their duties and their responsibilities until the next time they decide to meet. Hugs and warm farewells and promises of “meeting more often” are exchanged, until the only guest that’s left is the guest that was least wanted.  
  
A long uncomfortable silence stretches between the two, Shepard gathering empty glasses and near-empty bottles with a stranger standing awkwardly near the door, until Shepard all but screams, “If you haven’t got anywhere to stay, you can stay here. There’s plenty of room, and. Well.” She gestures vaguely at no particular spot, studiously trying to avoid acknowledging the woman in her living room.  
  
“Con…” Again, Shepard finds herself enveloped in an uncomfortable, unfamiliar embrace. Again, Shepard finds herself unable to do anything but stand there.  
  
“Such a good girl,” is what the stranger says when she lets go, laying a hand on Shepard’s cheek. Shepard wants to recoil and flinch away. She doesn’t do that.  
  
She pours herself one last shot of whiskey and does that instead.

 

—

 

“So that is your mother,” Thane says as Shepard finally retreats to the bedroom. Shepard grunts something non-committal, as she sits herself down in front of the vanity, clumsily running a brush through tangled hair.  
  
“Could says something like that,” she says, finally, after a long and stony silence. Shepard lays the brush down in defeat and leaves her hair as it is. (It will be hopelessly tangled in the morning. She can’t bring herself to care.)  
  
She looks in the vanity mirror and runs her fingers through the black strands briefly. She gives a bleary-eyed scowl at the ghost staring back at her.  
  
“I see.” In the mirror, Shepard sees Thane approach from behind her. He picks up the discarded hair brush, and, gently, he coaxes out the tangles from her unruly hair, the quiet now soft and companionable. “I must confess,” Thane says, eventually. He lays down the hair brush and begins braiding her dark locks loosely. “I’m afraid that you and she are nothing alike, Siha.”  
  
It’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to Shepard.

 

—

 

It’s two days before Mother stumbles into the apartment in the small hours of the morning, reeking of bad scotch and cheap spirits. Shepard all but drags her towards the guest bedroom, ignoring the drunken raving and obscenities hurled her way. Shepard sits by the bed until exhaustion takes over and sleep claims the stranger in the bed.  
  
Against her better judgement, Shepard pours herself a glass in the privacy of her and Thane’s bedroom.  
  
Thane says nothing. Shepard is grateful for small mercies, at least. (She still feels his dark-eyed gaze when her back is turned.)

 

—

 

A week passes. Shepard comes home from a long, infuriating day of politicians to the sound of her mother’s drunken, angry ranting, the sight of her mother pointing an accusatory finger at Thane, who stands stock-still and silent. Shepard doesn’t know who started it or how it started, and she doesn’t care. She steps in between the two before things can escalate any further.  
  
“Mom, _stop_ ,” is all Shepard gets out before she’s reeling from the force of the blow on her face, and _fuck_ , looks like violence runs in the family also, Shepard thinks bitterly as she presses a hand up to her reddened cheek.  
  
Mother fixes Shepard with a stare that makes her go cold inside. “Ungrateful little _brat_ ,” is what she slurs out before she storms, measured but unsteady, out of the door. She doesn’t even bother slamming it shut.  
  
It’s silent again. Slowly, tentatively, Thane lays a gentle hand on Shepard’s shoulder. He makes a sound like he wants to say something. Shepard turns her head to stare at him. The expression on her face stops him, and he says nothing. Shepard is grateful for small mercies, at least.  
  
Shepard shrugs off Thane’s calming touch. She stares at the door flung wide open, feels like she should follow, but she doesn’t, just continues to press her hand to her still stinging face. Like a ghost, the stranger has already disappeared. She knows that her mother is gone for good this time.

 

—

 

Shepard sits at the piano, plunking random keys at even more random intervals, nothing but memories, more bitter than sweet, and an empty glass in her hand to keep her company.  
  
Her free hand twitches towards the half empty bottle of whiskey in front of her.  
  
“Siha.” Shepard’s wandering fingers stop at the sound of Thane’s quiet voice. He sits next to her on the piano bench, reaches a comforting hand towards the darkening mark on her face. Shepard closes red-rimmed eyes and leans her forehead to his.  
  
Thane says nothing, just wraps his arms around her silently heaving back and holds her close.  
  
They sit like that, quiet, for a long time.  
  
(The empty glass sits like that, too.)

**Author's Note:**

> Con - literal meaning is "young child." A parent would call their kid this.


End file.
